Once Upon a Staff Room
by MadgeM
Summary: It's been six months since Albus Dumbledore has died, and Minerva is trying to cope with what has happened. She isn't the only one...
1. Chapter 1

S_ince he had died._

That was what everyone kept on repeating, their words echoing in her head over and over without ever coming any closer to making themselves understood. Since he had died. That was what she could not, would not understand had become of reality.

It had been two months since Poppy and Xiomara and the rest of the lot had begun prefacing what they said with that cold phrase. It was vile. She wanted no part in it, could not accept it as part of her lexicon.

She ran the school much as she always had-- Albus had been a terrible organizer for as long as she'd known him, and that was the better part of her sixty-odd years. He had been her teacher, first, and then her mentor, and then, finally her boss, officially. Unofficially he had been her best friend for the past thirty years, and she could not will herself to put him behind her as if he were a figment of her past that merely haunted the halls that he had presided over, humming ridiculous tunes to himself while wearing that dreamy half smile that she had seen on his face first as a student and then as an equal, a companion.

A companion. That's what they were, life long companions. It would be useless to analyze their relationship further, as Minerva McGonagall had little patience for speculation and idle dreaming. She was one to live in the moment; that was why Albus had made such an ideal companion, in part. Dreams were somehow made more tangible, more acceptable coming from Albus; he had a way of making reality dreamy, light, funny, something to ponder, muse over, savour, in ways that warmed her chest. To Albus, the whole of the world was dreams, and the cold hard truth was never cold and hard with him. He lived in a world of shades, and his renderings were somehow had coloured her visions as they mingled with his in the steam of tea brewed effortlessly over the seemingly neverending games of chess.

It struck Minerva that it had been a long time since their last game of chess. She had won, as usual. There were some who might have called their weekly chess matches boring; Albus won rarely, and hadn't for many years, and although he played intelligently, winning mattered little to him. It was Minerva who played competitively, ruthlessly, and yet she knew as well as he did that the actual winning of the game mattered not nearly as much as the pleasure of playing. Sometimes they would play long into the night, and sometimes their matches would last for days, the board laying untouched in their corner of the staff room, nearest the fireplace. In that corner they remained slightly detached from the rest of the staff room, and gave them leave to make use of both silence and conversation equally. Conversation was easy between them, both experts in their field, both fluent in the same language of philosophy and curiosity, both rather wildly intelligent in their own quiet, comfortable existences. Silence came easily, too, and passed frequently as thoughts wandered between moves on the board, leaping from one square to the next as patterns formed from the thin air and materialized in the form of words. Sometimes those words found themselves in scientific journals; Minerva's most recent publication had sprung from one of these discussions, and Albus had been the first to congratulate her, surprising her one morning with a Chocolate Frog card charmed with her own picture on it.

She flinched at her own memory.

No, she could not just discard him as a fragment of the past. Much as it went against her nature to dwell on things that had been, she held on to his memory fiercely, refusing to let go.

Because it was Albus, this was not only possible, but necessary.

She needed his otherworldliness with her, she needed her dearest friend as much as she missed his presence, silly and annoying as he often was, no matter how he tried to provoke her with gumdrops stuck to her doorknob and whistling in her ear from across the other side of the room. She never could stay annoyed at the man, however hard she tried.

She needed her companion of over fifty years, even if she could only have his memory.

In private, he had called her his better half, declaring on numerous occasions that without his dear Minerva, not a single sheet of paper in the school would have found its way out of the mess, as he never had had a head for business. She would then point out that everything _was_ a mess, particularly in the direction of his office, which she had not been able to salvage fully.

His better half. He had called her that-- called her that, and more. She knew that. He knew that-- had known that.

The trouble was that nobody else knew it, and her secret had been lost with the death of her co-conspirator; that part of her was lost.

It had always been the two of them together against the world, first and last and always. She had been at his side, been his comfort, when the world wanted him as a great mind and then later as a hero, and all the while she had been there with her greatest friend, hardly noticing the ripples in the wind and the excitement caused by his genius and the awe with which he was treated by colleagues and admirers. Between the two of them, at least, nothing changed; she had never been inclined to pay much attention to fame, true to her nature, and he had little interest in it. Together they ducked the storm, continued on in their lives much as they always had, arguing over the little things and sharing thoughts on cosmological theory over endless cups of Earl Grey that they both had a fondness for. So many evenings had been filled so; there was no one day in particular that distinguished itself from the rest; rather, conversations and bad jokes (Albus had been particularly fond of those) stood out from the never ending stream of memories that flowed from one to the next, in no particular order, as if a lifetime belonged to the room itself. The best of those had been the particularly rainy Sunday mornings, when he had opted not to walk the grounds, as was his custom; then, she would find him already in the sitting room, leaning back in the the red velvet arm chairs, teacup resting on the worn arm. She would often find him in his chair, eyes serene and far away, gazing out the window at something that only he could see, and she would wonder where he had wandered off to, what beautiful puzzle or musing he had stumbled upon this time. He was often far away, lost in his musings, and she never interrupted, practical as always, having accepted that he saw things she did not. Not right away, anyway. She would brew a fresh pot of tea and set it steaming between them, taking her place without comment. If she had marking to do she would set it aside when he returned from his thoughts, but on most days she would hold the saucer between her hands, warming them, lose herself in the damp green of the ivy that lay between her and the cracked-open grey of the sky.

Minerva sighed, lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the soft _click_ of the door to the staff room.

If she had looked up, she would have seen the stricken look on the face of the newest Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry duck behind the furniture.


	2. Severus, on little cat feet

Severus Snape froze as the door shut behind him, willing the unhappy woman by the window not to turn around, not to see him. He moved quickly behind Poppy's favourite high-backed loafing chair beside the mantle of the fireplace, his steps uncertain as he maneuvered.

It wouldn't do for him to stumble and let her know he was here.

A small smile formed on his lips as occurred to him that under other circumstances the sheer irony of his ability to out-stealth the resident cat animagus herself would be amusing. A year ago-- hell, even six months ago-- he would have crept up behind her and and said something about the dulling of Gryffindor sensibilities, and she would have whipped her head around with an annoyed retort. He liked to think that it was a half annoyed and half _amused _ retort, that she enjoyed their banter as much as he did. He had enjoyed needling Minerva McGonagall above all others, her reactions always as quick and sharp as her wit-- and her claws. These frequent exchanges were far more than the contact he held with the rest of the minions of the damnable castle, and Merlin help him, he had come to think of her as a friend of sorts. Not that she felt quite the same, but a part of him dearly _hoped_ that she did, perhaps, feel friendly towards him, however slightly. Which was more than could be said for the others. Minerva McGonagall had been the only one of them to treat him as a colleague, a rival, someone to exchange barbs and bets with, sometimes even treating him to a rare smile of genuine proportions.

On those rare occasions that he-- former death eater and resident misfit-- would be graced with one of those smiles, it seemed as if the weights of the world lifted from her shoulders and none of her students had fallen in the darkness of the world. It was all he could do not to smile himself, breath catching in his throat as he watched the momentary transformation.

It was then that he would feel almost light himself, and he had treasured these rare, precious moments.

In the last three years they had certainly come with less and less frequency, and now-- well, one wouldn't expect to see Minerva McGonagall smile these days.

Times had changed. Albus was dead, Minerva looked a wreck, and Severus... well, he was still stuck playing the game. A losing game, he couldn't help but think.

She would never forgive him.

Even if she never understood-- and Severus very much doubted if they ever spoke as colleagues again-- it still meant that there was one person on the planet who had not thought of him as a tool to be used, but as a friend of sorts. Heaven knows nobody else thought of him that way.

Albus Dumbledore didn't count. Yes, he invited him up for tea and a chat, but love the old man as Severus did, he knew how the cogs turned in the former Headmaster's brain. The old man always kept careful track of him, always keeping his fingers in all the pies, so to speak. Sometimes it was business and sometimes it was not, but Severus was not a Slytherin for nothing and could see it in Albus' eyes as he looked at him from across the dizzying array of sweets that covered his desk.

It was a look of fleeting pity, a look of regret. Albus never let his gaze linger for long. Of course, no one was infallable. Albus had proved that.

Over a year ago, Albus had slipped, had allowed his eyes to meet Severus' for one long moment.

His skin tingled.

In a flash, Severus could feel the old man's mind brush against his, and the worries of the surface gave way to a feeling throbbing just beneath the surface. _Guilt_. In a moment it dawned upon him that the great Albus Dumbledore felt guilty for using him, for manipulating both himself and--

And then the tingling in his hands stopped, and he found himself staring into the calm blue eyes of a man without worry, crunching on the tip of a sugar quill.

Severus shivered, banished the image of Albus Dumbledore from his mind. He avoided thinking about the man, hated even _thinking_ about his whimsical smiles and frankly bizarre robes, his seemingly benign gestures of kindness and his hateful little collection of sweets.

It was just so easy to go on hating him. It was hard to tell whether the emotions that boiled whenever he thought of the former Headmaster had more to do with Albus himself or what Albus had asked him-- no, _forced_ him to do was more like it.

Perhaps it didn't much matter.

He hadn't had a choice. He had done his duty, and done it with hate in his heart.

_Please_. He hadn't cried before Albus Dumbledore since the day he had first come to him, desperate for a glimmer of forgiveness amidst the hatred, a light somewhere that could one day save him--

_Please don't ask this of me. I've got blood on my hands. So much blood on my hands that won't wash away. Please… _

His pleas were futile. Severus realized that Albus had already decided on his own murder, and was planning history. Nothing Severus could say would alter any of his plans, because he was the weapon of destruction, and Albus knew that he would do what was asked because, in the end, Albus the Wise and Powerful controlled the board. Hateful man.

To continue the chess analogy, Severus thought bitterly, he was the damned Knight, doomed to strike without warning where he was told because that was his role in the game.

Albus hadn't given him a choice. He had told him what he would do, as if the future had already been frozen in stone.

In the end, Severus had merely nodded his head once before leaving for his dungeons, and avoided speaking to the Headmaster for the nearly the remainder of the term.

It was a week before the end of term before Albus turned up in his sitting room one evening, and it was the only time that Severus had felt vindictive as guilt was plain on the face of the old man. Ordinarily Severus would have demanded to know the business of any intruder upon the breach of his own sitting room. Whatever the Headmaster had to say, he was not going to play into it. Glaring, Severus strode past him to the decanter by the mantle.

He did not offer the Headmaster a glass.

Albus spoke quietly after an uncomfortable silence.

"There's one last favor I must ask of you. I know, my boy, you don't want to see me. You don't want to do me any more favors. But you are the only one I can trust to do this."

"Lucky me." Severus snarled. "_I'm_ the only one you can trust to take care of your dirty work after I'm the only one you can trust to _murder_ you. What makes you think--"

The Headmaster didn't allow him to finish, though Severus noted with the tiniest bit of satisfaction that he had the good grace to look distinctly uncomfortable.

"It's Minerva."


	3. A not so pleasant fireside chat

"It's about Minerva."

_Minerva._

Severus blinked. What on Earth was he supposed to do with that? He remained as he was, unwilling to be the one to quantify, to even _attempt_ to quantify the odd statement.

Instead, Severus looked at the man before him.

Albus Dumbledore looked _old_. For the first time since he had told the Potions master of his plan, he looked is if rather than just another noble martyr planning for battle, foolish in his wisdom… well, for the first time he looked a man aware of his mortality. For the first time he looked like a man who knew he was going to die, and the knowledge in his eyes spoke of regret.

The Headmaster broke eye contact, removing his half-moon spectacles and making an awkward show of polishing them on his robe, blue eyes peering past them as he inspected the specially charmed lenses for nonexistent dust.

"I need you to look after Minerva-- after I've gone." His voice was careful.

"You mean after I've murdered you?" Severus didn't intend for it to come out as harshly as it had.

Albus's slight wince would have slipped past most wizards unnoticed, but not Severus.

"Yes." His _yes _was unexpected. Albus bowed his head. "Once I'm gone, I need to know that Minerva will be alright, that someone I trust-- someone _she _trusts-- will be there when she shuts out the world and spends her days in the tower hiding behind paperwork and the duties of Headmistress.

'I need to know that my Minerva won't be entirely alone in the world."

Severus stared. "You haven't told her, then?"

The Headmaster frowned. "Told her--"

"Told her you love her," Severus interrupted, voice harsh. He was tired of games, tired of dissembling. He slammed the cork back in the decanter, daring the headmaster to contradict him. "Oh, no, of course you haven't. That would be too honest."

"It would not be helpful." Albus's voice was careful. Tired. Once more, there was the man with visions of his own mortality. "Any declaration of my… feelings… would serve neither Minerva nor myself now. It's-- easier this way."

"You mean easier for yourself." Severus stood abruptly, and rounded on the Headmaster.

'Lord knows I've lead a wicked life. I turned to a dark master as a young man and turned to another master as a man who had done terrible deeds, seen things that will never be erased from my memory. I've served two lords, and as such my role in the game is set. I am a servant. I, Albus Dumbledore, am your weapon. I will do the terrible things even _you _ask me, and I will do them for not just for the good of the wizarding world or because I owe it to you or even to attempt to make up for the past. For all of this I will do what you ask of me, loathe it as I might. For _you _I will do this. But Minerva--" Severus lifted his eyes from the fire, caught in thought. His voice hardened. "Minerva does not deserve this. Not from you, not from me.

'She doesn't deserve to be kept in the dark, while you plot and plan and play your games. She loves you, and I think you already know that. She's my friend, Albus. These are things she deserves to hear from you."

Albus turned his head towards the fireplace. Severus nearly missed the watering of his eyes.

"I always thought there would be time." His hand moved unobtrusively under his eye. "I thought that one day there would come a time when the world was at peace and I would tell my dearest companion of sixty years that one morning long ago I had awoke and marveled that such a woman should be in my life, that her smile brings me joy, that I love her. And we would have the time to share together." He sighed. "I always intended to tell her. But time runs out, and it has escaped us. In a few weeks' time I'll be gone." A wince clouded his face as he continued on, Severus wondering if he were crying-- _the headmaster crying_? "It'll come so soon, don't you see? Too soon. I can'ttell her, not now. I couldn't bear do that to her, to Minerva."

Silence stretched tangibly between them. Finally, Severus found his words.

"She'll never forgive you."

Albus Dumbledore looked up from the fire slowly, giving a sigh of heavy resignation, _terminal_ resignation. To Snape's surprise, he most definitely _was_ crying.

"I know," was the headmaster's only response.

After a pause, Severus continued awkwardly. "She'll hate me even more."

More silence.

"I'm sorry."

Severus stared at the fire, unsure at first whether he'd heard the man correctly, and closed his eyes. In all the years he'd known him, the blasted man _never_ apologized. Never to him, anyway.

And after years of wanting to hear something… well, _human_… from the Old Man, suddenly Severus wished he hadn't.

Severus wished very violently that he were sitting by the fire with the Headmaster of five years ago, when Dumbledore had been waiting for him post-summons and he'd resented the man's infuriating omniscient presence in his life. He'd resented it, resented _him_, wanted to give him a taste of what it was like to err and be human, to fall and bruise and_ be sorry_ for the wrongs done that never seemed to belong to any one person.

Severus looked down as a hand settled on his, eyes meeting Dumbledore's, and released his grip on the armrests.

His fingers were white.

"So am I," he said finally. He hoped it didn't sound too bitter.

"And-- Minerva?" Albus's eyes were unbearable.

Severus gave a nod.

"You can depend on me."


End file.
